Fighting to Forgive (Fighting, #2)

He looks up and slicks a wave of thick, gray hair off his forehead. “Blake, come on in.”


I weave around a few random boxes on the floor. The walls are bare where the last doctor’s framed medical degrees and sports medicine certifications once hung. I guess he hasn’t unpacked yet. His desk is empty except for a computer and a few short stacks of paperwork.

“Sorry to bother you.” I take a seat on the other side of his desk. “My back still hurts like a motherfucker.”

“Yeah, lumbar strains can be a bitch.” He types some shit into a computer. “The supplement shakes aren’t helping? Or the pills?”

“Yeah, they are. I think. But I’m training hard. I need something stronger than that natural shit you’ve got me on.”

He scratches his chin. “Of course.”

“Can you fix me?”

He laughs. “Fixing will take time. Time you don’t have. But I can keep you pain free until the fight. I’ll give you some cortisone shots. That, along with the shakes—”

“Don’t care. Whatever it takes to train.”

“You sure? The cortisone will make it so you can’t feel the pain, but it won’t prevent further injury.”

I shrug. “What choice do I have?”

He studies me through narrowed eyes. “Good point.”

“Have you got time to do the shots now? Sooner the better.”

After a quick flip through some pages of what I assume to be his planner, he nods. “Yeah. Meet me in the treatment room in thirty.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

*


“Come on! Hit it!” Owen yells from behind the heavy bag. He’s been talking shit since we started. “What in the fuck is wrong with you? My nanna hits harder than this.”

I drop my gloved hands to my side. “I’m hittin’ it hard. Put your face there and tell me if it hurts, dickhead.”

My back cramps, but it’s bearable after my session with the doc. He said it takes about two days for the cortisone to hit its highest potency, but that I should feel some immediate relief. The pinch is still there, but my mobility has improved.

“Man, Wade’s been—”

“Fuck Wade. I’ll destroy him on fight night.” I hear the confidence in my voice, but a trickling doubt sets in. I kick it back. As soon as the shots deaden the pain completely, I’ll train harder and make everyone who gave me shit send me a formal apology.

“Show me you’ll destroy him.” Owen throws his shoulder into the bag to brace it. “Let’s go!”

Opening my stance, I throw my weight into my punches, over and over again, until Owen is satisfied and backs off the bag. We move through a few different drills. Kicks, sweeps, and combinations. The aching in my back dissolves, and I’m itching to push myself harder.

“I want… to spar,” I say, catching my breath.

“Rex is waiting for you in the octagon.” He pulls his phone from his pocket. “Shit, it’s Nikki. I’ve got to take this. I’ll meet you guys there.”

Owen walks toward the locker room, and I jog to the octagon, trying to keep my body loose and my blood thrumming.

Rex is there, leaning up against the chain link of the cage. “Where the hell did you run off to last night?”

Last night. Shit. I haven’t thought about Layla all morning. Or the shattered look on her face when I turned my back and walked out of the club. Thanks a lot, asshole. “Had to be here early. Didn’t want to drink too much.” I sniff and drag a towel across my sweaty forehead.

Rex tilts his head and studies my face. “What’s her name?”

“Fuck you talkin’ about?”

He laughs. “The girl who scared you off last night. Talon said he saw you getting into it with a smokin’ hot chick.”

I shake my head. He’s right about the smokin’ hot part. What he’s missing is the crazy-as-a-celibate-on-Viagra part.

“She didn’t scare me off.” Shit. I scared myself.

Even pissed—hell, especially pissed—that woman is addicting. I stayed up half the night wondering what happened to her. I imagined breaking every single bone of the fucker that broke her. I drafted my apology to her over and over in my head. What I said was a low blow. I exposed her past, something she’s clearly wounded by, and shanked her with it. I attacked her weakness. Just like my dad. Fuck.

“Whatever you say.” He rolls his head around on his neck. “You ready to—”

“Hell-oooo? Does anyone in this place know where I can find my mom?”

Our heads swivel in unison to the direction of the girl’s voice. Mom?

She must’ve taken our moment of distraction as an invitation because she smiles and walks toward us. “Hi. I’m looking for my mom. Can either of you tell me where she is? That lady at the front desk didn’t know her tits from her toes.”

I choke on a swell of laughter. “Sorry, kiddo. You must have the wrong place.”

I can’t think of a single girl who works here who’s old enough to have a kid. Especially one in her teens.

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